Her Last Word(2)

“If I could have a superpower, it would be flying. The idea of soaring high above is thrilling.”

Straightening his shoulders, he took a step forward. The floor creaked between the thump, thump of the music.

Her fingers, immersed in soapy bubbles, stilled. He imagined her brain, the most primal part of any human, rightly whispering of danger. You’re not alone. She hesitated, slowly turned, and wiped away the fog with her hand. She opened her left eye, their gazes locked, and then the next moments played out in slow motion.

Faced with this unexpected threat, her mind seemed to momentarily short-circuit with disbelief and confusion, before realization took hold.

She gasped and stumbled. Soap dripped into her eyes and forced her lids closed. With trembling, frantic hands she quickly wiped the suds from her face and braced.

The music’s downbeat pulsed.

She drew in a breath to scream.

The music swallowed the first cry as she backed up, slipped, and slammed onto the shower floor. She groped for the shampoo bottle, hurled it at him. He easily deflected it.

His hands trembled with excitement. He had waited so long for this moment. He silenced her scream with the first rapid thrust of his knife. Blood spattered his goggles. The hot spray of water and blood made his grip slippery. He adjusted the knife in his hand and lunged again. Blood and water swirled around the drain.

She swayed forward and clenched the arm of his suit. Her nails dug in but couldn’t penetrate the material. He never imagined there could be so much blood as he watched it trail away.

The third thrust sent more blood running down her flat belly and then her long legs. His white laminate suit was covered in soap, water, and blood.

He hesitated before his next strike, giving her a moment to raise her right arm and block his attack. The blade cut neatly through the flesh in her forearm.

She stared up, her eyes wide and searching.

He turned the knob to shut off the water. The soft music drifted around them. “There are so many terrible ways to die, Jennifer,” he said.

“Why?” The word was barely a whisper.

It was a stupid question, and he sidestepped it. “Did you ever wonder what happened to Gina?”

“What?”

“Do you ever think about where she is now? I do. Every night. So many terrible things could have happened to her.”

“I know you.” Her voice trailed off.

Her pain focused her attention completely on him. He knelt beside her so she could get a good look at his eyes. “Accept your punishment, and you will feel peace.”

“No.”

“It’s the only way now.” He slowly wrapped her fingers around the knife handle and gently placed his hand over hers. He felt a strong bond with her now.

He raised the knife to her neck. “Jennifer, do you want to do it, or should I?”

Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

“Punishment is never easy, but once you accept it, you will feel better.”

She shook her head. “No. Please.”

“We’ll do it together.” He drew the sharp tip across her throat, slicing her milk-white flesh. Blood sprayed on him, the walls, and the door as her eyes rolled back in her head and her fingers slackened.

“And if I could fly with that Angel . . . my life would be perfect.”

“Jennifer, when you see God, put a good word in for me.”



INTERVIEW FILE #2

THE 911 CALL

Sunday, August 15, 2004; 11:42 p.m.

It was a hot, muggy night when I stumbled up to the front door of the Riverside Drive house. I was fairly new to the area and still easily turned around. It was nearly midnight, and the residents of this affluent neighborhood weren’t accustomed to drunken late-night visitors. I’d lost track of time and to this day don’t know how I made it up the hill from the river to the Hudson residence.

Dispatcher: “911. What’s your emergency?”

Caller: “My name is Jack Hudson. I live on Riverside Drive. There’s a young woman on my front porch. She’s banging on the door and begging for help.”

Dispatcher: “Have you spoken to her?”

Caller: “Just for a second. She appears drunk. She’s incoherent. Hysterical . . . Oh, shit! She just threw up in the flower bed.”

Dispatcher: “Do you know why she’s upset?”

Caller: “She claims she and her friend were attacked on Riverside Drive. Her friend was then kidnapped.”

Dispatcher: “Did you ask the woman her name?”

Caller: “Her name is Kaitlin. I didn’t catch her last name. She lives down the street with the Mason family. They have a daughter, Gina.”

Dispatcher: “I’ve dispatched officers. What is the woman doing?”

Caller: “She’s pacing in my driveway.”

Dispatcher: “Is she bleeding or hurt in any way?”

Caller: “I can’t tell. Let me flip on the porch lights.” Feet shuffle. A switch clicks. “She has blood on her arms. Jesus, she looks insane.”



CHAPTER ONE

Richmond, Virginia



Thursday, March 15, 2018; 9:00 p.m.

Homicide detective John Adler held up his badge for the uniformed cop and caught the young officer’s surprised expression. There’d been lots of rumors circling around about Adler during his prolonged leave of absence. He had kept up enough to hear his new nicknames, including Firewalker, Burning Man, and his favorite, Hot Pants. He didn’t begrudge the dark sense of humor cops developed to stay sane.